


Bitter Hope

by AntiMaterielGirl



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Loneliness, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:02:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7861027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiMaterielGirl/pseuds/AntiMaterielGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Courier stops for a glass of water at a small ranch, the proprietress finds - and loses - something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Hope

At first I thought he was a mirage. The wasteland does funny things to your brain sometimes. Makes you think things that ain’t true. See things that ain’t there.

He came shuffling in around dusk, dragging one leg, the heavy pack on his back threatening to topple him with every step. I met him at the fence with my daddy’s old service rifle. I didn’t shoot because…well, because I saw no malice in him. Out here, people don’t just walk up to you and murder you, most times. They just run up yelling like a banshee and tear your throat out, or worse. Most sure as Hell don’t open their lips and ask in a parched baritone, “Miss? Might I trouble you for some water?”

“Sure. Come sit for a spell. Try not to die in my front yard.” He chuckled at this as I showed him to the gate, opened it, and then latched it behind him. The metal sign that read ‘Bitter Root Ranch’ rattled as pulled the gate closed and locked up for the night. “This way.”

It wasn’t until he got inside that I got a good look at him. His bronzed skin looked like soft leather, of the kind that the merchants brought from the ranches up north. He had a good three days scruff on his face, and was covered head to toe in wasteland dust. A pair of dark sunglasses covered his eyes, his wide-brimmed cowboy hat pulled down low over his brow.

As I headed for the sink I heard a solid thump as he set his pack next to the door, and then clomp-scrape of him making his way into the kitchen. There was a soft creak as he lowered his weight into one of the ancient dining chairs. I set a glass of water in front of him.

He met my eyes over his glasses. His were warm and brown, and full of pain. “Thank ya kindly.” He drank deeply, finished the glass in three long swallows. Some dribbled down his stubbly chin, but he didn’t seem to mind, and I couldn’t care less. It took more than lack of table manners to scare me away, especially from one this handsome.

“Name’s Myra. What’s yours?”

“Just call me Courier. Everyone does.” He smiled sadly, as if there was a story behind it that he’d rather not get into. That was fine by me – my own story wasn’t all that rosy, either. It seems that no one’s is, anymore. That was when he took off his weather-beaten old hat, and I saw it for the first time. The scar.

It was an ugly thing, streaking the side of his head, parting his sandy brown hair. I couldn’t help but gasp. It looked like a gunshot wound. _How could anyone survive that?_ “Saints alive!”

“Yeah, it looks worse than it is.” He smiled at me. “I still gotta pay a guy back for that one.”

I laughed nervously and grabbed his glass, then ran to the sink to refill it, and one for me too. “If you need me to tend to that leg, Mister Courier, I can. I’ve medicine, and my Ma taught me how to nurse.” That’s how I made the little money I could out here since my folks passed. The ranch didn’t bring in much, but it kept me in food. What little extras I needed I could barter my skill for.

“Nah, I don’t think so. All I need is some rest.” He smiled in thanks as I sat his glass back in front of him.

I looked over at his leg, the patch of dried blood, dark brown – almost black – mixed with dirt on his jeans. “That’s a load of brahmin shit, if you don’t mind my sayin’.” I said. “It won’t take but a couple minutes, and it sure as hell won’t hurt it none.”

“Well – if it’ll make you feel better,” he shrugged, with mock helplessness. “Do your worst.”

 

* * *

 

 

He was so weak that he barely made it into bed.

I stripped him, then slapped that nasty poultice on him – works miracles, but stinks to high heaven. Ma showed me how to make it, out of a couple weeds out here that grow local. It may work like a charm, but kinda makes you wish you died instead.

Pa named the ranch after he found a lot of them weeds growing around _. Bitter Root_. A terrible name for a ranch in my humble opinion, but he said that it stands out. Gives it character.

I sat in Pa’s creaky old rocking chair, watched him as he slept. He tossed and turned, mumbled in his sleep. I couldn’t hear anything he said. I leaned over a little further – I couldn’t help it. My curiosity got the best of me, and I crept to the bed, craning my neck over to hear –

His hand shot out, grabbed me by the back of the neck. I froze in horror as his eyes opened and met mine. His lips parted, a whisper. “Beautiful.”

Then his lips were on mine. My mouth opened to his searching tongue. It’d been so long since I’d been with anyone, but…your body never forgets it. My faded floral print dress found its way to the floor. We were all mouths and hands, skin to skin lying next to each other, oh Lord God – how long had it been since I’d even touched someone else, let alone…

I could smell him – dust and sweat and leather. His stubble scratched my face, but that didn’t deter me at all. We were panting desperately, passionately, consumed with need. Before either of us knew what happened, he was inside me, thrusting steadily. It felt so good…

My moans filled the tiny house, the bedframe squeaked, knocking against the wall. I wrapped my legs and arms around him, grinding back. His grunts filled my ear, forceful exhalations, our sweat mingled and mixed, the heady smell of sex almost overpowering.

I squeezed him tight and his paced quickened. I could barely see his face in the darkness. Then his mouth opened, eyes squinting, shut tight. Then, a guttural moan as he came. He rolled to the side and drew me next to him.

We slept until morning, my head resting on his chest, listening to his strong, steady heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

 

He came back every few days at first, most of the time with a new stimpak scar to show off.

“Adding to your collection, I see.” I quipped, sarcastically. He smirked  - he knew as well as I did that everyone out here had ‘em. It’s the trade-off for fast healing – an ugly reminder of the whole business.

I’d cook for him, he’d help with the ranch work. Sometimes, we’d go out to New Vegas together, take in a little light and action – but trips like that were rare.

We he came to visit, we took every chance we could get to sneak off and knock boots. He couldn’t keep his hands off me. I loved it. He put everything into it, like every time that he was with me could be his last. I suppose it could’ve.

Then the visits got shorter. He started coming by every week. Then once every couple weeks. The first time he was gone for a month, I told him I was worried. He got this sad look in his eyes, told me not to, that he just had some things to take care of. “Just have patience, darlin’.” He’d say.

I begged him not to leave again, but he always did. “I love you. Don’t worry,” he’d say, before he walked out that door and out of my life again.

 

* * *

 

 

Time passed. It got so that every time I saw someone approach the gate, I’d go mad thinking that it was him. The hope almost killed me. It’s cruel, you know, hope. It’s what separates us from the animals, I think. Wanting what we can’t have, wanting what we do have to last forever.

But it never does.

It’s been over a year since I seen him last. The Legion’s turned tail and run away – with luck, those fools and their tin pot dictator will stay far away from New Vegas and our dam. Mr. House runs things now, the NCR at the fringes, licking their wounds from the trouncing they got.

I heard my Courier had a hand in that. Wouldn’t surprise me none.

 

* * *

 

 

He must have left his friends with orders to look after me. There’s an unhappy woman who smells of whisky, but she’s a damn fine shot with a rifle, drunk or sober. There’s a blond doctor who tends to my aches and pains, but doesn’t charge me a dime, and refuses payment when I offer it. There’s a sad military man in a red beret, who smokes almost constantly and says little – I don’t ask what his sadness is. I’m too wrapped up in my own.

I always ask for news of him, but I never get none.

I often sit on the porch in the dark and think back to that night, the last night that we were truly together. We made love, passionately, under the stars. I cried. He kissed me, and told me that he’d never leave me.

But he did.


End file.
